Los Santos: Undead
by RedM1st
Summary: A year after "the big one", Michael, Trevor, and Franklin discover they have a much bigger challenge to tackle.
1. Vinewood Zombie

The fog shrouded the entire forest, creating a thickness that only the moonlight could cut through. She scampered between the tree trunks with labored breaths, panicking as she looked behind her, trying to see the distance she might have made from her pursuers. She could not see them, but she could make out the black shadows of her enemies as they streamed continuously towards her. Their low moans of blood thirst broke the silence, but falling only on her ears. There was no one to help her. The shadows grew closer with each passing moment. She had been running for miles and she was too fatigued to continue. Slowly, she backed up, hoping for a way out, when a pair of cold, dead hands caught her, wrapping their fingers around her arm, and she felt teeth sinking deep into her flesh. She screamed for help, but no one could hear. The camera panned out and the scene faded to black, and the credits rolled.

"What?" An incredulous voice belonging to Tracey De Santa questioned. The faux-blonde held her nail file out with one hand, the other facing palm-up in a questioning gesture. "That doesn't even make any sense." She complained to her audience, consisting of her brother, Jimmy, and her father, Michael.

"What doesn't make sense, Tracey? The fact that the zombies ate her fucking brains out?" Jimmy asked, violently mimicking the act on an imaginary person, complete with detailed sound effects.

"Cut that out!" Tracey demanded. She continued filing her nails as she rephrased her question. "I meant why does it end like that? She was the last person alive, and now she's dead. That's not even a good ending. It's supposed to be happy."

"It's _Vinewood Zombie_, Tracey." Jimmy retorted. "Not 'Woman Makes Miraculous Escape And Survives Zombie Apocalypse.'"

"Stop being so condescending, you little turd!"

"Stop being such an airhead!"

"Fu-"

"Alright, alright!" Michael cut in, waving his hands back and forth, trying to get his kids to stop their argument. "We almost made it through a whole sitting without that shit, so I'll just pretend it didn't happen." He stopped the movie, and the news segment that had replaced the _Vinewood Zombie _credits on the screen had all of their attention.

"_-was reportedly eaten alive, and has been taken to the ER, though doctors are doubtful of his chances. Police reports say this has been the fourth incident today, and would like to ask any witnesses to please call the number at the bottom of the screen to report any more similar incidents." _The female news anchor's smile seemed forced as the camera panned out and they cut to commercial. All three De Santa's sitting on the couch stared at the television in astonishment for a good minute before any of them spoke aloud.

"What the fuck?" Jimmy's mouth was agape as he stared at the TV, finally looking over to his father as though he could offer some sort of explanation. However, Michael generally had the same reaction to the news piece, though he decided to try to brush it off.

"Must be some sort of new drug thing," Michael mumbled passively, trying to ignore the alternative.

"Whatever," Tracey stood up as Amanda entered the room.

"Ready for ladies' night, Trace?" Amanda asked, clad in a white tank-top, dark blazer, and a pair of tight-fitting jeans rather inappropriate for her age, though Michael himself wouldn't complain about how his wife looked in her outfit.

"Yeah, I'm done with this dumb zombie thing," She pointedly rolled her eyes at Jimmy. "I mean, honestly."

"It's good you were spending some time with the guys though," Amanda said brightly. She had made a promise to herself to be more positive now that the family was attempting to patch things up. She had attempted to drag Michael in on that promise, though she believed his heavy use of sarcasm had pretty much destroyed him beyond repair. "Anyway, we're heading out," She bent over to kiss her husband goodbye, who was trying to hide a look of concern in his face.

"Okay then, be safe." He responded, and Jimmy gave him a questioning look. Catching his son's eye, Michael scrambled for some more words that didn't make it sound like he believed what he knew Jimmy believed, based on that news report. "Don't let any assholes roofie your drinks."

"Will do - see you later baby. Bye, Jimmy." Amanda started heading out with Tracey following willingly behind, clueless to the reason that Jimmy had scoffed at Michael's words.

"Bye, mom." Jimmy waved half-heartedly as they left, and waited until they were out of the house before turning to his father and firing off. "You don't _actually _think all that shit is from 'some sort of new drug thing', do you?!"

"What do you want me to say, Jim? I thought you were old enough to watch this movie, but now I can see since you're still so impressionable, that was fucking ridiculous of me to assume." Michael's tone was even, if not a tad annoyed, but Jimmy knew his dad well enough to know when he was trying to hide something.

"Whatever," Jimmy said, echoing Tracey's response, and storming up to his room.

Michael shut off the TV, even though he had been hard on Jimmy for what he was insinuating, he couldn't help but think that maybe he was right. _'Worst case, Jimmy's right and the cops handle the situation.'_ He thought to himself, though he knew that reasoning with himself on this sort of ridiculous topic was a new one for him. Suddenly finding the whole idea laughable, especially that he would even consider its legitimacy, Michael chuckled to himself.

"Fucking zombies. As if."


	2. The Outbreak

The night seemed to drag on forever as Michael tossed and turned, trying to get some form of sleep. The LED clock on the nightstand glared in his face every time he restlessly rolled onto his right side, being a consistent reminder that Tracey and Amanda hadn't made it home yet. The hours flew by… 11:00pm… 12:00am… 1:00am… 2:00am… The details of the news report were on replay in his mind. There was some psychopath out there, and his wife and daughter were vulnerable. He should have never let them go out; he should have at least warned them better. All because he didn't want to confirm his grown son's juvenile suspicions. Michael still stuck by his initial thought, regardless – there were no zombies.

Just then, Michael heard a few thuds on his bedroom door. By complete reflex, he reached into the nightstand's drawer and pulled out a pistol. It took him a bit longer to realize the sound was actually an innocent knock on the door, rather than some intruder.

"Dad?" Jimmy's voice whispered as he cracked open the door, peeking through. "Whoa, why do you have a gun?! Is something wrong?"

"No," Michael responded, lowering the weapon. "No, Jim, nothing's wrong."

"Mom and Tracey aren't back yet," Jimmy successfully brought Michael back around to the thoughts that were keeping him awake.

"They're probably fine."

"Have you tried calling?"

"They probably just can't hear their phones." Michael set the pistol on the nightstand, obscuring vision of the clock that seemed to be counting down to something rather than keeping time. Every minute that passed was another minute Michael had to worry about where his wife and daughter were.

"Are you serious?" Jimmy hissed, stepping further into the room, fully dressed. Michael assessed he had probably been playing his video games this whole time. It wouldn't be a surprise. "You're going to sit here and make excuses rather than go out and find them, and make sure they're okay? Especially after what we saw on the news?"

Jimmy was right. There was no way Michael would be able to sleep without having Amanda and Tracey back safely in the house. "Okay, point taken. You should go to bed, I'll go find your mom and your sister." Michael hopped out of bed and went to pull some jeans over his boxer shorts, and a worn brown leather jacket over the black t-shirt he was wearing.

"Can I come with you?"

Michael stepped out of the walk-in closet to see a determined look on his son's face, which faltered slightly when he saw the expression on Michael's face.

"No. I need to know that you'll at least be safe at home so I-" A muffled thud from downstairs cut Michael short. He grabbed his pistol, holding his finger gingerly over the trigger and moved slowly towards the door, and cautiously into the hallway.

"Mom, Tracey, is that you?" Jimmy called behind Michael, causing him to clap a hand over his son's mouth, shushing him violently. Jimmy needed no convincing as another thud sounded out, undoubtedly coming from the front door.

"Stay there," Michael ordered, descending the staircase while pointing his pistol at the door, expecting someone to burst in at any moment. As he descended, Jimmy followed behind, trying to get a glimpse of what was making the noises at the door.

The soft thudding continued, and it sounded like there was someone at the door, knocking shyly, waiting for Michael to open the door. He instead went straight to the window, trying to catch a glimpse of whoever was on the other side.

"What is it, dad?" Jimmy called nervously; the quiet pounding on the door was starting to create a very creepy vibe in the dark, quiet house.

"I don't know, I can't see. Whoever it is, they're just standing there." Michael began to lower his pistol, figuring it must just be some hobo at the door, trying desperately to mooch off the better-off people in Los Santos.

"Why?"

"The fuck if I know," Michael shrugged, grabbing his car keys off a small side table by the door. "I'm gonna go see if I can find your mom and sister. Stay here, alright?"

"Daaad…" Jimmy's voice shook uneasily as he pointed at something behind Michael, who was annoyed by what he thought was another protest against staying at home.

"What?" He looked up at Jimmy, who seemed to be glued to the spot, just pointing urgently. Michael spun around to see a familiar face, but something was wrong. Wearing a dorky-looking golf visor and standing stiffly in front of him was the De Santa family's neighbor, Hayden Dubose. His skin was greyed and his eyes looked dead, a visible whitish film over his eyes, making his faraway, unfocused stare even creepier. Hayden continued to shuffle towards Michael, who was holding his gun up at Hayden. There were no intelligible sounds coming from the man's mouth, which was a drastic change from the obnoxious "hey there, neighbor!" that Michael was used to. Michael took a step back, and Hayden seemed to leap forward at Michael, albeit very unsteadily.

"Cover your ears!" Michael called to his son on the staircase, who finally stopped pointing with his mouth agape and followed his father's orders without question. Immediately, Michael pulled the trigger and a loud bang rang out, disorienting Michael slightly, and Hayden fell dead at his feet, blood pooling out around his head.

"What the fuck?" Jimmy yelled, his voice even shakier than before, his hands shaking as well as he lowered them to his sides. "What the hell was that?!"

Michael didn't know what to say. There was Hayden, lying dead at his feet, but by the way he looked before Michael put a bullet through his head, it could be argued that he was dead before. "How did he get in here?" Michael asked suddenly, holding up his pistol at arm's length as he stepped around Hayden's body, trying to find evidence of a break-in. Upon seeing that the doors out to the pool were wide open, Michael swung them shut, and felt panicked. What did this mean? Did this have anything to do with the news report? Trying to think of the best course of action, Michael went into the living room and turned on the TV, where he soon found that every channel's programs were interrupted with an urgent newscast.

"_All residents of Los Santos are advised to leave the city immediately. Survival kits are strongly recommended. Police will be doing a sweep of the city to assist residents and will be directing them to a safe house with continuous police protection, where air lifts out of the city will be given. The nature of the outbreak is still unknown, but doctors are claiming that corpses are… reanimating." _The newswoman looked around uneasily. "_Any residents with access to radios or televisions can keep up with any developments on all stations. Thank you._"

The television lost the signal, showing nothing but static. Michael turned off the TV and dropped the remote on the couch. "Fuck," He spoke quietly to himself, running a hand through his hair and gripping the pistol in his other hand tightly.

"I think he was a zombie." Jimmy came into the living room where Michael was standing, speaking very quietly, shaken by the events that had just taken place. He had blood on his hands, which he attempted to rub off onto his jeans.

"Jesus, Jim, don't touch them, alright?" Michael instructed, his son just nodding quietly.

"What are we gonna do, dad?"

"I'll tell you what we're gonna do. I'm gonna give you a gun, you're gonna be careful as fuck with it, and we're gonna find your mom and sister." Michael walked over to the bookshelf, pulling a few of the books off a higher shelf and pulling a pistol out from behind them, handing it over to Jimmy, who took it readily, trying not to look too excited as he felt some colour coming back into his face. Michael pretended not to notice how his son reacted to being handed the gun. "You know how this works?"

"Yeah," Jimmy responded, pointing to different places on the gun. "Safety, trigger, magazine… baby stuff. And you thought my games were never going to come in handy."

"Alright, so here's the plan: we don't have daylight on our side so we shouldn't be out too long. I don't know how bad it is out there, but it sounds bad. We'll take my car out to check a couple clubs they might have been at and see what we can find out. And please be careful with that thing, Jimmy, it's not a toy."

"Got it," Jimmy nodded, trying to wrap his fingers around the gun sturdily but gingerly enough that his dad wouldn't have to regret giving him the gun.

"Okay. Let's go." Michael went out the front door, stepping over Hayden's body as he went, unlocking the black Obey Tailgater in the driveway, quickly climbing in and waiting for his son to take his place in the passenger seat.

Michael cautiously drove out onto the road, which seemed relatively quiet until he got deeper into the city. There were lines of cars everywhere, some abandoned on the side of the road, some people honking their horns frantically as they attempted to pass the long line of traffic.

"How are we gonna get past all this?" Jimmy asked, gesturing towards the traffic ahead of them. Not responding, Michael pulled up onto the sidewalk and his tires squealed as he accelerated ahead, half on the sidewalk and half onto the road. He weaved between some cars until he finally found the stretch of road he needed; one that wasn't plagued with cars full of people trying to get out of the city. Michael slowed down as he scanned the streets for any sign of Tracey and Amanda. It wasn't until then that he noticed the people walking as stiffly as Hayden Dubose had been, sharing the grey tinted skin, and as he rolled by, he could hear them groaning as they shuffled about aimlessly. Michael looked over at Jimmy, who looked back at him with an uneasy shrug before they both focused back on the street as they came up by a club.

Michael parked directly in front of the building, opening the door and shutting it quietly behind him, motioning for Jimmy to follow. So far, there were no grey "undead" people – Michael still refused to fully accept it – and there was a clear path into the club. With a twinge of hope, Michael noticed Amanda's red Sentinel parked beside the club.

Inside the club, there was loud music playing, with people dancing as though they had no clue what was happening outside. Michael made a beeline to the bar, with Jimmy trying to keep up. "Really, dad? Now? Shouldn't we look for mom, and Tracey?"

Ignoring Jimmy, Michael rested his arm on the bar and leaned in to speak with the bartender over the loud, pulsating music. "Do you really not have any idea what's going on out there?"

"You mean the whole cannibal thing? Yeah, we know. There's strength in numbers, man." The bartender replied, shrugging. The dark haired man with a goatee had an attitude so lax about what was happening, that it was quickly trying on Michael's patience.

"Yeah, let's see you say that while you're being eaten alive, huh? The door's not even locked, you idiot. Anyway, I'm looking for my wife and daughter so we can get the fuck out of here. You seen them around? A brunette and a blonde?"

"Dad, look, it's mom!" Jimmy interrupted, pointing over at a table by the corner of the club, where sure enough, Amanda was sitting with her hands wrapped around herself. She looked uneasy.

"Okay, well, thanks a lot, good luck with your ignorance, buddy." Michael said, tapping the countertop with his fist as he moved away from the bartender and towards the corner of the bar where his wife sat.

"Michael! What are you doing here?" Amanda asked, springing to her feet and wrapping her arms around her husband tightly, grabbing the back of his jacket, clearly hoping he'd never let go. It took a few moments before she stepped back and gave her son a hug as well. "I'm so glad you guys are safe, where's Tracey?"

"What do you mean, 'where's Tracey'? That's what I was going to ask you," Michael questioned, growing incredibly irritated at having to yell over the music.

"She went back home," Amanda explained, becoming steadily more concerned. "At least she was supposed to. I told her to take a taxi, that I'd be coming right away, but then some police came in and told us all to stay here until they could dispatch a group to get us somewhere safer."

"Well, I don't know where the fuck she is, because she never came home." Michael still had his pistol gripped tightly in his hand. "_Jesus_." He hissed sharply before grabbing Amanda's wrist and pulling her through the crowds of people in the club, expecting Jimmy to follow behind.

"_Ow_, Michael, what are you doing?" Amanda pulled her wrist out of Michael's grasp, and stood stubbornly on the spot.

"Now is not the time for this, Amanda. We're going back to the house to see if Tracey made it, alright? And then we'll decide what we're doing next."

"But the police said to stay-"

"Fuck the police!" Michael responded angrily, yelling over the irritating dance music that was making him want to shoot out the speakers. "We're not going to find Tracey sitting around here, doing nothing, so let's get a move on."

"Fine," Amanda responded quietly, knowing her husband had a point. The De Santas made their way out of the club and climbed into Michael's car, and he had no problem driving on the sidewalk on their way back to the house.

They remained silent the whole ride back home, each of them watching the few people shambling along that were infected by whatever was spreading, causing them to become cannibalistic. The occasional person lying dead on the sidewalk, abandoned after their guts had been ripped out only made it more clear what was happening. Amanda turned away, putting her hand over the side of her face to avoid seeing any more gruesome scenes. Jimmy stared out the window in disbelief, and Michael drove with his hands gripped tightly on the steering wheel, looking straight ahead. He pulled up to the house and the three De Santas got out of the car and entered the house. Amanda gasped upon seeing the dead body at the front door.

"Michael, is that… is that our neighbor?" She pointed, before covering her mouth with her hands.

"Uh, yeah. I'll get rid of him later." Michael said, stepping over Hayden's rotting body once again before hopping upstairs. "Trace?! Tracey!" He called, quickly searching every room upstairs, hearing Jimmy and Amanda calling for her and looking around downstairs. The lack of response created an awful feeling in Michael's stomach. She was nowhere in the house. In a last-ditch effort, Michael checked Tracey's room once more, but she was definitely not around. Sighing in defeat, Michael headed downstairs to talk about some sort of plan of action with Amanda and Jimmy.

"What are we going to do, Michael?" Amanda asked softly, a tone of voice Michael wasn't incredibly used to. It wasn't just because Amanda was incredibly stubborn, or tended to enjoy picking fights, but also because she was generally a strong woman who could handle herself in most situations. To have her submitting now to whatever Michael thought was best was something that didn't always happen.

"I don't know. When I tried calling her phone earlier, it was either off or dead, so that's not going to work. I don't want to just sit here and do nothing, we'd be no better off here than in that damn club."

"Maybe we should check some of her friend's houses?" Jimmy offered, spinning the pistol around on the table that they gathered at.

"That's one idea," Michael responded, taking the pistol away from Jimmy, who looked dejected. "It's somewhere to start, at least. We could call around."

"We could ask the police?" Amanda suggested, and Michael shook his head.

"They've got too much on their hands now, with whatever's happening. There's no way they'd have the time to fill out a missing person's file and go through that process. It's unlikely they'd magically be more efficient than they usually are."

_Ring, ring._

"Maybe that's Tracey!" Amanda said, leaping for the phone. "Hello?" Michael and Jimmy watched Amanda carefully as she waited for the reply on the other end, but the look of hopefulness in her face was quickly extinguished, creating the same response in Jimmy and Michael. "Michael, it's for you."

Michael slowly took the phone from Amanda, trying to think who it could possibly be. "Hello?"

"Michael. I'm sure you're wondering what's going on." The voice was unmistakable, though Michael hadn't had much reason to talk to the man lately.

"Lester. Yeah, you know something?"

"I might. If you want to come to my place, I'll tell you what I know. It would be helpful in preparing a plan of defense, too." Michael had to admit that Lester's matter of fact tone in such a confusing situation was a bit comforting, but that didn't change the fact that he had a more pressing matter at hand.

"No can do right now, Lester. Tracey's missing."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. But not being prepared isn't going to help that anymore. Come see me."

"Fine. Okay. I'll come over there, but you'd better explain everything to me fast and have some genius plan on how we can find my daughter."

"I'll do what I can, Michael." Lester hung up the phone, and Michael set his down on the table.

"Well, looks like Lester knows something about the whole… outbreak thing that's going on. I'm going to go pay him a visit so he can tell me what's going on. Jimmy, you stay here with your mom, and please don't play with this, okay?" Michael slid the pistol he had taken from Jimmy back across the table. "You guys be careful. I'll be back as soon as I can."


	3. Lester's Wisdom

The traffic was worse than it had been earlier that night, and the city was still in a panic. Michael resisted the temptation to turn the radio on, knowing that hearing whatever was causing these people to panic wasn't going to help him. Looking around at the increasing carnage on the sidewalks and streets of Los Santos, he thought it might have been safer for the people to stay in their homes instead of get stuck in what might be the last traffic jam of their lives. He took as many back roads as possible on his way to Lester's house. It was already 4:30am, and the old cliché of "it's always darkest before the dawn" came to Michael's mind as he pulled up in front of the green house surrounded by a weak chain link fence. The saying didn't seem to make any sense at the moment, and he already felt himself trying to struggle with the reality of the situation. For some reason, Michael was convinced that if he heard Lester give him the lowdown, just like the old days, he'd be able to accept it much easier. Denial was always something Michael was incredibly good at.

Shutting off the ignition and clutching his car keys in his hand, Michael stepped out of the black vehicle and hopped up the stairs to Lester's front door. The neighborhood was surprisingly quiet, considering the chaos that was breaking out all around the short, unassuming houses. Just as Michael raised his hand to knock on the door to make sure something human and _alive_ was inside, he heard Lester's voice muffled through the door. "Come in, Michael."

Michael dropped his hand to the doorknob and turned it, opening the door and stepping into the familiar surroundings of Lester's cluttered home. Taking extra precaution, Michael locked the door behind him.

"There's a box on that shelf over there, could you get that one and bring it over here?" Lester never was one to beat around the bush, which was a relief to Michael in most situations. He didn't take it personally that Lester tended to skip out on all the small chat and "how do you do's" before cutting right to the chase. Looking around at all the shelves surrounding him, Michael poked his head further into the house and located Lester sitting on his bed, with his cane leaning up against yet another shelving unit, amongst the many others in his house.

"'That shelf'?" Michael asked, standing in front of the portly man. "Could you please specify which one 'that one' is?"

"Right there, Michael. You're literally standing right beside it. There's a box marked 'Zombie Outbreak'. It's brown and box-shaped, made out of cardboard. Specific enough for you?"

"Alright, alright!" Michael huffed impatiently. While Lester wasn't one to bore you with small chat, he was extremely prone to degrading behavior. He hauled the box off of the shelf; it was surprisingly heavy. "You've got a whole box about this, really? Jesus, it's like you knew it was coming." He commented, setting the box down at Lester's feet.

"Of course I knew it was coming, it was inevitable." Lester murmured as he opened the box and started rifling through the papers at the top. "Good, good, everything's here."

"Great, mind if you tell me what the fuck is going on now?"

"Sit down." Lester offered, motioning to a chair across from his bed. Michael did as he was told, and Lester took a breath before pushing his glasses further up the bridge of his nose. "We're into apocalyptic-level stuff here, Michael. Although it's a completely ridiculous notion to look towards film for our answers like you seem to love to do so much…" Lester ignored Michael's scoff of defiance. "…if my theories are correct, a lot of information from 'zombie apocalypse' films seem to hit pretty close to the target."

"What does that mean?"

"I'm getting there." Lester reached into the box and pulled out an MRI scan of a human brain. "Most zombie films portray these undead people as shambling, lifeless creatures, devoid of any personality or memory of who they were as a fully functioning human. This," He pointed at the MRI. "Is a human brain."

"I can see that, thank you." Michael was beginning to regret his choice of allowing Lester to explain anything to him, knowing he was probably so excited for the _slim_ chance of being right about the zombie apocalypse, that he was likely near pissing himself. The condescending behavior just came with it.

"As you probably know, each section of the human brain serves its purpose for how we think, act and react to everything. Our motor control, our memories, our sense of self. If you were to damage as many parts of the human brain as you could without killing someone, they'd be unrecognizable as the person you once knew them to be. What I believe is happening to dear old Los Santos, is a rare infection that has essentially a million to one chance of coming into existence. With the right mixture of chemical imbalance, immune system and pre-existing medical conditions, this could occur. However, once it has come into existence, it is _extremely _contagious. No amount of surgical masks or paranoid germaphobe tricks is going to help you avoid the terrible outcome."

"So are you saying it's just some sort of cold or something?" Michael asked, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms.

"No, Michael. _Infection_. It's an infection. An infection that feeds on the brain tissue until it becomes strong enough to take over parts of the brain completely, shutting them down. It spreads from there, eating nearly every part of a person that can be described as 'alive', until they become that shambling, lifeless creature in all your movies. I suppose the best description of it is a zombie, but I don't find it entirely accurate." Lester dropped the MRI scan back into the box and took a deep breath. "Have you seen any of them?"

"The zombies? Oh yeah, there are guys eating each other's guts out all over the streets. My fucking neighbor broke into my house and tried to eat me. But now that I know this is just some rare infection, I feel _so much better_."

"Your sarcasm isn't going to help anything right now. All you need is a plan, a well-executed… zombie plan."

"A zombie plan."

"Yes."

"This is fucking immature, you sound just like Jimmy!" Michael said, standing up and pacing around, his anger boiling up to a point where his face could turn red any second. "My _fucking zombie plan_ is to find my _daughter_, and then kill all of these _fuckers_. How's that for a zombie plan? Jesus, Lester!"

"Okay, calm down." Lester grabbed his cane and stood up, pushing the box aside with the end of his cane. "There are a few important things that you need to know before you do anything. And I might have a few favors to ask of you later." Seeing that Michael was opening his mouth to protest the favors angrily, Lester waved his hand. "But don't worry about that right now. First – most importantly. Do not get bitten, no matter what you do. I know for a fact it will spread the infection faster. I don't know exactly how it works otherwise, if it's an airborne disease or if some people are immune – I'm going to try and find out. Just don't get bitten. Secondly, the only way you can kill these guys is…" Lester raised two fingers to his temple and weakly simulated a gunshot. "Trauma to the brain. It's got to be enough to put the guy out of commission. If there's no damage to the brain, the thing is still alive. Finally, do not make rash decisions. If you're running around out there, waving a gun and shooting everything that moves, you're going to attract a lot of undue attention. The infected, cops… it'll create drama that you don't need right now."

"Right." Michael replied, calming down, realizing the truth of Lester's words, and had he not gotten the warning from the bespectacled man, he might not have thought of it. "Any ideas on where I could find Tracey, then? I'm not doing anything, no zombie plan, nothing – not until I find her."

"Where's the last place you knew she was?"

"Amanda said she was supposed to have taken a cab home."

"Alright. You go look for her. _Quietly_. _Carefully_. I will contact the cab company and see if I can get a number on the cab that might have driven her." Lester hobbled over to his computer and sat down in the chair, going straight to typing feverishly on the keyboard. "Keep safe, Michael. Contact me when you find your daughter, and we can decide on the next step we have to take."

"Okay. See you, Lester. Don't get eaten, you're an easy and desirable target." Michael said, opening Lester's front door.

"I know." Lester replied with a sadistic grin, as though Michael had paid him a compliment.

Back on Lester's doorstep, Michael took a moment to listen. It seemed loud and quiet at the same time. There was the unmistakable sound of tires on pavement, engines running, and horns honking. The loud wailing of sirens and garbled instructions being shouted out by police through speakers. But something seemed so vast that all of it sounded quiet compared to some sort of stirring feeling of imminent death. Michael knew he was on a strict schedule to find Tracey soon.

Michael kept up with his new habit of keeping the radio off while he drove down the roads, searching for any sign of his daughter. He rolled past grey, rotting people shambling aimlessly on the streets, with a few of them even going right up to cars and banging on the windows. He made sure to keep rolling no matter what, not wanting one of those guys to come up and break the window out of his car. As Michael drove further away from the highways and main roads, it got quieter, and darker, fewer streetlamps lighting the way, with all the shops locked up and houses with lights off, abandoned. He rolled down his window and risked making noise, just in case Tracey could hear him.

"Tracey?" He shouted out the window, keeping his headlights on low and squinting out onto the sidewalks, trying to make out any figures that might be living people. "Tracey, where are you?"

A faint shouting caught Michael's attention, and he stopped the car and turned off the ignition to hear it better.

"_Help! Help!" _It was a man's voice, and it sounded like it was coming from inside a building. Just across the street was a 24/7 store with the lights on, and Michael bet the voice was coming from inside that store. Following his gut feeling, Michael hopped out of the car, grabbing his pistol from the glove box and running inside the store with his gun up, ready for anything.

When Michael got inside, he saw the storeowner behind the counter, surrounded by three zombies that were advancing towards him slowly. He was equipped with nothing but a broken broom handle, but judging from the blood on the splintered, pointed end, he had made good use of it already.

"Please don't tell me you're here to rob me," The store owner grieved in a thick Indonesian accent, his voice shaken and panicked as he flicked his eyes from the zombies to Michael.

"I wasn't going to, but if you're just going to assume…" Michael said, not even trying to hide the annoyance in his voice.

"Please, just help me!"

"Fine, but only because you asked nicely!" Michael replied, aiming carefully for the zombie's heads and putting bullets into one… two… three skulls. The zombies fell to the floor instantly, and blood leaked all over the already dirty floor. Michael winced, mostly at the strong smell of rotting flesh. "…you might want to go back in there with the broom."

"Thank you, how can I repay you?" The store owner lowered his broom, appreciation filling his dark, wrinkled eyes.

"Ah… this is probably a long shot, but did you happen to see a blonde, early twenties, whiny…?" Michael asked, studying the owner for a reaction, and feeling his heart rate skyrocket when he saw recognition in the man's eyes.

"Yes! Yes I have!" The owner rushed to the back of the store, opening a door that led to some stairs, undoubtedly to an apartment on top of the store. "Kimberly! It's safe to come down now!"

"I'm never coming back down! I don't know what's going on, but it's terrifying!" A rather high-pitched voice, easily described as being whiny, was the voice that responded.

"Nevermind." Michael said, feeling incredibly dejected. It couldn't have been that easy to find Tracey, after all – nothing in his life could be _easy_.

"Ah, have you lost your mistress? I will keep an eye out, sir." The man replied jovially, feeling much better now that he knew he wasn't going to be robbed or killed.

"My _daughter_, you sicko." He said, debating throttling the guy right here and now, but instead waving his hand dismissively as he left the store, ignoring the apologies from the store owner. Michael returned to his car and turned the key in the ignition, muttering to himself. "I regret even saving you. Idiot."

Michael's search for his missing daughter continued for another twenty minutes with no luck. He only managed to get into the more worse-for-wear part of town, and it was too quiet for him to feel comfortable. He dearly hoped he wouldn't find Tracey here of all places, because it probably meant she was in more danger than he thought. Zombies? They were bad. Gang zombies? Hopefully they were too dumb to know how to use guns. Driving slowly through the trashy-looking neighborhood, just a bit worse-off than Lester's neighborhood, and Michael's slow cruising speed quickly became complete vehicular cessation. "What the-" Michael slammed his foot down on the gas pedal a few times with no response. "Oh, great. _Perfect_." Michael's eyes were fixed on his fuel gauge, which stubbornly told him that it was empty. Once again, Michael retrieved the pistol he had been carrying with him, and left the car, taking his keys and locking the door. He'd be coming back if he could find more gas. He regretted not bringing a flashlight with him at this point – everything was pitch black, even if it would just be a couple more hours until sunrise at this point. With the way Lester was talking, he wouldn't be able to survive a couple of hours if anything unexpected should happen.

Deciding to move forward in silence, Michael held his pistol in front of him as he stepped slowly, trying to adjust his eyes to the dark. The rusted streetlamps held a dim light, but there were some that flickered, and from the sudden sound of crunching glass, Michael assumed there was a couple that were shot out. In the faded light, he was able to confirm that he was actually in a cul-de-sac. He looked around at the houses carefully, trying to check for any sign of people in the area.

"Yo, friend or foe?" The sudden voice gave Michael a bit of a start, and he instantly turned towards the sound of it, pointing his pistol at an indiscernible figure on the porch of one of the houses, who was also holding a gun, pointed at Michael. The figure might have been indiscernible, but the voice didn't leave much room for doubt.

"Franklin?" Michael called back.

"Michael? Is that you, dog?" Michael could see Franklin lowering his gun, and he did the same. He jogged up to the porch where Franklin stood, and pat the young man on the shoulder.

"Franklin, am I ever glad to see you alive and well." Michael said, feeling a buzz in his pocket. "Hold on a sec," He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and saw that he had a text from Lester.

"Yeah… what is all this, anyway? Shit's crazy," Franklin seemed exasperated. "It's all over the radio and TV that we gotta evacuate the city."

Michael nodded, not paying much attention as he read the text from Lester. _Michael – found the taxi driver that had Tracey. Said they were attacked and he lost her. He couldn't remember where it happened. I guess the rest is up to you – he said Tracey wasn't injured, as far as he knew. _Michael quickly texted Lester back while Franklin kept an eye out, expecting a member of the undead to pop up any second. _Lester, found Franklin. Car's out of gas. Give you an update later._

"Daddy?" Michael shoved his phone back in his pocket and looked up at the screen door to see Tracey standing behind it. She pushed the door open and ran over to Michael, hugging him. "I was so scared! Is mom okay? Are you okay? What's happening?"

"It's okay, Trace. Everybody's fine. I'm so glad you're okay." Michael held his daughter close to him, stroking her hair a few times and giving her a kiss on the head before it clicked with him where she was. He gave an accusatory glance at Franklin, who looked back defensively. "Let's go inside. C'mon." Michael led the other two inside the house and he stopped in the living room area, which had a couple crappy couches. "Whose house is this, anyway?"

"My cousins lived here," Franklin replied with a shrug.

"Alright, so you wanna tell me why you're here _alone_ with Tracey?" Michael's words quickly engaged a response in both his daughter and Franklin.

"_Daddy!_" Tracey hissed, clearly embarrassed and angered.

"Shit dog, it ain't like that!" Franklin waved his hands, and shook his head. "I just found her, she said she was tryin' to take a cab back home when they were attacked and the driver ran off. I told her I'd watch out for her and take her back home."

"Fine. We'll talk about this later." Michael accepted the explanation for now, but he still shot one more accusatory glance at Franklin, causing Tracey to huff and roll her eyes.

"So do you have any clue on what's goin' on then, man?" Franklin asked, sitting down on one of the couches. Tracey situated herself on the coffee table and Michael sat on the couch as well.

"Lester said it's an infection. Something happens to people's brains, and it… eats them alive, or something."

"Kinda like everyone is doing to each other." Tracey responded, with a disgusted expression on her face.

"Yeah. Kinda like that." Michael nodded.

"So now everyone's going crazy and tryin' to get out of the city, huh?" Franklin said, leaning forward, and putting his gun down on the coffee table. "If it really spreads as fast as it has been these past couple'a hours, no other city is gonna be much safer."

"My thoughts exactly." Michael said, using his forefinger and thumb to rub his chin thoughtfully. "Lester says we need to formulate some kind of plan. The way things are sounding; the military are running some evacuations out of the city. From some kind of meeting point or something?"

"Yeah, man, they're asking everyone to go over to Legion Square, they're doing some airlifts out of the city, and some evacuations with armored vehicles." Franklin explained. "It's all over the radio, they keep sending out instructions for everyone."

"Have they said anything about where they're headed?"

"Nah, they just keep saying they're going 'somewhere safe'."

"That doesn't sound very promising." Michael grimaced, looking over at Tracey, who looked like she was trying very hard not to appear as though she was terrified.

"So what do we do?" She asked, her voice as high pitched as it always was when she was scared.

"First, we should get back home. Franklin, you should come with us, I don't want to lose track of you. We've probably got more chance of surviving together." Michael said, reaching into his pocket and feeling his keys jingle. "Ah, shit. My car's empty."

"There's ditched cars all over the road, we could find somethin'." Franklin suggested.

"Yeah, we could look for something else. I don't really want to leave it here, but I guess we have no other choice." Michael stood up.

"What, you mean now?" Franklin asked.

"Yeah. Amanda and Jimmy are at home alone, and I gave Jimmy a fucking gun, so we'd better get back ASAP."

"You gave Jimmy a _gun_?!" Tracey squealed – that was the whiny voice that Michael had been looking for this past hour or so.

"Everyone makes mistakes, Trace. Let's go."

Franklin led the way out of the cul-de-sac, with Tracey close behind and Michael following up the rear. It didn't take Franklin long to find one of those abandoned cars that he spoke of, and he hotwired the old car with no trouble, motioning for the other two to climb in, and he took off towards Michael's house. The sky was already starting to get a bit lighter, but the mood definitely wasn't.

"If the infection is spreading so fast, shouldn't there be like, a ton of zombies somewhere?" Tracey managed to ask the question that Franklin and Michael were both silently wondering to themselves. The answer was bound to cause trouble.

* * *

**_Hey guys, sorry it took so long to get this chapter up!  
But let me say, reviews would be highly appreciated. Let me know what you like, give me some constructive criticism, am I moving too fast, or not fast enough? Just say hi! Either way, thank you for reading!_**


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